The Bottle of Tears

by Nick Alexander

  ‘Gosh. That does surprise me.’

  ‘We had this really bizarre conversation when I found out. Because I always thought Martin was really quite right wing,’ Victoria explains. ‘And it turns out he isn’t at all. I think he voted for Thatcher when she first got in or something, but that’s about the end of it.’

  ‘That must have led to some pretty heated discussions,’ Penny says. ‘I mean, what with you being slightly to the right of Attila the Hun.’

  ‘Yes, it did,’ Victoria says. ‘I had to talk about it with Müller, actually. Because the truth is – and this is a bit embarrassing, so don’t tell anyone, OK?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘But the truth is that I don’t have a political bone in my body. I just try to fit in, really, because I’m too lazy to think about any of it. Actually, it’s not even laziness. It’s that I don’t believe in any of it. I think they’re all crooks. But I was just trying to fit in with Martin, I think. Well, I was trying to fit in with what I thought he was. It just seemed easier. But in a way, he was pretending, too. He was pretending to agree with me. So he didn’t dare tell me about the pro bono work, because he thought I wouldn’t approve. Which is so silly. Anyway, now Martin’s all out and proud about being a Labour Party member – he quite likes that Corbyn guy, actually, but I think he’s probably just as bad as all the rest. Or at least, he would be if he ever got into power. But like I said, what do I know?’

  ‘Wow,’ Penny says. ‘All those arguments we had.’

  ‘I know,’ Victoria says. ‘I just keep my mouth shut these days. It’s actually quite a relief not feeling like I have to have an opinion on everything. What about yours?’

  ‘Sander?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Oh, he’s doing well. He’s doing these amazing paintings of these really strange contemporary subjects like shelf-stackers and Tupperware parties. And he developed this incredible technique – it’s something to do with working from Photoshop, you’ll have to ask him. Anyway, from a distance, they look like photos, sort of Renaissance photos, if such a thing existed – all dark around the edges and glowy in the middle. And close to, they look completely abstract. He’ll show you when we get back. You just have to promise to be positive about them, even if you don’t like them. Don’t knock him off his stride, because he’s hoping for an exhibition next year. I love them, anyway. I think they’re stunning, actually.’

  They have reached the jetty now and, as they walk past a vast white hut, Penny says, ‘The Turner Contemporary. Margate’s on the up, you know. Maybe Sander will have an exhibition there one day.’

  ‘Is that the Turner museum?’ Victoria asks. ‘I thought it was supposed to be some majestuous pebble thing rising from the seabed. I thought it was going to rival Bilbao in Spain.’

  ‘It was,’ Penny says. ‘But all the money vanished, as I recall. So they built a big white shed instead. It’s supposed to be good, I think. Sander went, and he liked it. But, well, this is Margate, not Bilbao.’

  ‘Right,’ Victoria says. ‘Well, of course.’

  When the women reach the end of the jetty, they stand and look out to sea. It’s all still grey, but somehow rather pretty all the same.

  ‘Do you remember when the hovercraft used to come in and land on the beach?’ Victoria asks.

  Penny nods and smiles tightly. ‘Yes, it used to blow sand over everything, didn’t it?’

  ‘It did,’ Victoria confirms. ‘We always used to go and watch it, and it always blew sand in our eyes, but we went back all the same.’

  Penny sighs deeply and reaches inside her handbag. ‘So, are we doing this?’ she asks, pulling out the plastic urn.

  ‘I guess so,’ Victoria says. ‘But work out which way the wind is blowing first. Because in films, the cinders always blow back in everyone’s faces, don’t they?’

  ‘That’s true,’ Penny says, sucking her finger and holding it up to test the wind’s direction. ‘But I think we’re OK. I think it’s going that way,’ she says, pointing out to sea. ‘Do you want to say any words?’

  Victoria shrugs. ‘I can say them in my head if you want,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to upset you. I don’t want to spoil your moment.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Penny tells her. ‘It’s like . . . what was it they called it in South Africa? After whats-his-name – Mandela – got out?’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re on about, I’m afraid,’ Victoria says.

  ‘Oh, truth and reconciliation,’ Penny says. ‘That’s it. So go for it. This is our moment of truth and reconciliation. Or do you want me to go first?’

  ‘No,’ Victoria says. ‘No, I’ll go first. That way we can end on yours . . . we can end on a high note.’

  Penny gestures theatrically towards the horizon. ‘The stage is yours,’ she says.

  ‘Um, hi, Mum,’ Victoria starts, feeling a little silly addressing a seascape. ‘Oh, do we throw the cinders before or after?’ she asks, looking around to check that no one is watching.

  ‘After, I reckon,’ Penny says.

  ‘OK, then, I’ll try again.’

  ‘It’s fine. Just take your time.’

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ Victoria says through a sigh. ‘It’s me. I . . .’ Her voice begins to wobble and her eyes start to tear up as she continues. ‘I’m really . . . angry with you, Mum. I’m really, really angry with you. I was eight, for God’s sake. I was only eight and my dad was dead and you were the only person I could rely upon. Well, thought I could rely upon. And what about Ed, Mum? He was eleven! And I came to you, it took all my courage to tell you the truth, but we needed your help, and you didn’t believe me. Your own daughter, Mum. And you didn’t believe me! I was the most scared I’ve ever been, and the most vulnerable, too. And I needed your help, I needed you to protect me. I needed you to protect Ed. And you didn’t. You didn’t do anything. Because it was easier for you, you chose to just not believe me. And I’ve hated you my whole life for that. So, I’m not maybe as sad as I should be. Goodbye, Mum.’

  Victoria pinches her nose, sniffs and turns to face Penny. ‘That’s enough,’ she says. ‘I’m done. That covers it.’

  ‘Right,’ Penny says, wide-eying her sister. ‘So, um, Mum.’ She clears her throat. ‘I miss you so much. I’m really angry, too, as it happens. There are things I didn’t know about, things I didn’t want to know, perhaps, or things I was too little to understand. But I’m really upset now I know. I’m really angry about what happened to my sister and my brother. It was all, ultimately, Uncle Cecil’s fault, I suppose. But it was yours a bit, too, Mum. You were, like Vicky said, our only parent. We depended on you. And though, admittedly, you did pretty well with me, I agree you let Ed and Vicky down quite badly.’

  Penny pulls a face and turns to Victoria. ‘Is this too much like a court case?’ she asks, suddenly self-conscious. ‘I seem to be sounding more and more like Judge Judy.’

  Victoria shakes her head. ‘It’s fine. Just get it over with.’

  ‘OK,’ Penny says. ‘So . . . what do I want to say? I suppose that, despite all of that, and this is perhaps selfish of me, but despite all of that, those aren’t my memories of you, Mum. I remember all the good times, still. I remember baking cakes in that freezing kitchen and stuffing newspapers around the edges of the windows. I remember lighting candles with you during the electricity strike and you teaching me to knit when I was pregnant with Max. And even when you were old and grumpy, even when all you talked about was your bad back or that woman in the housing place that you didn’t like, you were still there, Mum, and I liked that. Even when I didn’t call you, I liked the fact that you were there, on the end of the phone. And now you’re not there, are you? And I miss you. I miss you so much. So, bye, Mum. This is it.’

  Penny swipes the tears away from the corners of her eyes and then turns to look at Victoria. ‘Ready?’ she asks.

  Victoria nods.

  Penny unscrews the lid and steps forwards as she upends the casket. The cinders fall in
a dusty column and, with surprising speed, straight towards the sea below. ‘Oh! Should I have saved you some?’ Penny asks, disconsolately peering inside the empty receptacle.

  ‘No,’ Victoria laughs, touching her shoulder. ‘No, it’s fine. It’s done. Come on.’

  She slides one arm around her little sister’s shoulders and turns her around so they’re facing the shore. And then slowly, very slowly, they begin to walk.

  Penny finds herself glancing back towards the end of the jetty as if, perhaps, she might catch one last glimpse of her mother in the departure lounge.

  ‘Shall we get an ice cream on the seafront?’ Penny asks after a moment.

  ‘Yes,’ Victoria says. ‘Yes, I think I could do with the sugar after that. I feel quite light-headed.’

  ‘Do you remember when Mum used to take us for a 99 ice cream when she got paid?’ Penny asks.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Victoria says. ‘With a chocolate flake sticking out, right?’

  ‘And Dreamland? At the end of the season they used to have a special cheap day and Mum used to take us all?’

  ‘I do,’ Victoria says. ‘Ed used to go on the Scenic Railway on his own. He liked to sit at the back, where it was most scary, where the train lifted off the tracks. And then I’d go on with Mum while Ed looked after you.’

  ‘I was too short, wasn’t I?’ Penny says. ‘They had a chart on the wall and you had to be a certain height. I hated that chart.’

  ‘That’s right. I’d forgotten that.’

  ‘But Ed used to buy me candyfloss while you were on it, which kind of made it all right.’

  ‘And I used to hide my face in Mum’s chest the whole ride through, because I was too scared to look. “What’s the point?” she used to say. “What’s the point if you’re not even going to look?” But I loved being scared. I loved the Scenic Railway.’

  ‘Is that why you took Bertie to Blackpool when she died? Were you thinking about when Mum used to take us to Dreamland?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Victoria says. ‘Not consciously. I’m not sure where that idea came from, really. I just wanted to be a long way away from everything and I’d read a thing about that big rollercoaster somewhere. But maybe subconsciously.’ She shrugs.

  ‘And what about the cinema on Saturday mornings?’ Penny says, nodding towards where the Dreamland cinema used to be. ‘Do you remember that?’

  ‘Mum used to make us change seats all the time. Any time there was someone with big hair or a smoker, we had to move.’

  ‘God, smoking in cinemas!’ Penny says. ‘I’d completely forgotten.’

  ‘Unimaginable nowadays. But she was so annoying, making us move all the time.’

  ‘Yes,’ Penny says. ‘I suppose Mum didn’t want us breathing in a load of second-hand smoke. I suppose at least she got that right.’

  Victoria has stopped walking, and Penny now spins around to look back at her. ‘Vicky?’ she says. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Can I do mine again?’ Victoria asks doubtfully. ‘Do you think that’s possible?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘My words.’

  ‘Oh, if you want,’ Penny says with a shrug. ‘There are no rules, after all. Do you want to do them here, or do you want to go back?’

  ‘Let’s go back,’ Victoria says. ‘It’ll only take a second, won’t it?’

  At the end of the jetty Victoria looks out to sea. She takes a deep breath and straightens her posture. A gust of breeze blows her hair across her eyes, so she reaches up and tucks it behind her ears. She looks, Penny thinks, somehow clever and noble and wise. She looks beautiful actually. Penny seemed to have forgotten that fact.

  ‘So, Mum,’ she says. ‘I don’t feel like I was fair to you just now.’ She glances at Penny beside her, who has fresh tears visibly welling up in her eyes. Penny nods gently at her to continue.

  ‘It was true, what I said. I’m not taking anything back,’ Victoria says. ‘But I know that, if you’re there somewhere, then you understand now. And I know that you’ll be sorry about all that. And for all that it was bad, and for all that it was true, that wasn’t the whole story, was it, Mum? We both know that. So thanks for taking me to Dreamland once a year as well. It must have been really hard for you when Dad died, and as a kid I never thought about that much, I suppose. So yes, thanks for going to work every day, and thanks for feeding us ginger nuts and custard for dinner. Thanks for mending my clothes, and thanks for taking us to the cinema, even when we didn’t have money for the electricity meter. And thanks for not letting me breathe in second-hand cigarette smoke. And thanks, above all, I suppose, for never hunting Cecil down after he left that day, even when things were hard, even when we were broke, even when we were going to lose the house. You let me down, Mum, you really did. But you had your good moments, too. And despite everything that happened, and every insult that got thrown at me, and despite all my pretending otherwise, yes, I did love you, Mum. And amazingly, despite it all, I miss you like crazy as well.’

  Victoria blows out slowly through pursed lips then turns to face Penny. ‘Truth and reconciliation,’ she says. ‘I’m done.’

  Penny opens her arms. ‘Come here,’ she says, and Victoria steps forward into her embrace.

  ‘I do love you, you know,’ Penny says. ‘I don’t say it enough, but I do.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Victoria replies.

  ‘Let’s never fall out again, eh?’ Penny says.

  Victoria snorts. ‘Like that’s going to happen.’

  ‘OK, then let’s never fall out for long, all right?’

  ‘OK,’ Victoria says. ‘It’s a deal.’

  Penny opens her bag and removes the plastic urn so that she can reach her tissues below. She hands one to Victoria and uses the other to dab at her own eyes. ‘I’m so glad I didn’t put make-up on,’ she says.

  ‘Mine’s waterproof,’ Victoria tells her, pointing at her own face. And Penny doesn’t dare tell her that it has run all the same, she doesn’t dare tell her that she has panda eyes.

  ‘What am I supposed to do with this, do you think?’ Penny asks, lifting the plastic urn into view.

  ‘Here,’ Victoria says, taking it from her and crossing the jetty briskly, then dropping it into a litter bin.

  When she gets back, Penny is looking shocked.

  ‘Hey, relax,’ Victoria says. ‘It’s a plastic, screw-top container. Life goes on.’

  Penny peers past her at the litter bin and shrugs. ‘I suppose so,’ she says doubtfully.

  Victoria takes her arm and spins her back towards the shore. ‘Ice cream, little sister?’ she asks as they start to walk.

  ‘Definitely, big sister,’ Penny replies. ‘And mine’s a 99.’

  ‘Un quatre-vingt dix-neuf,’ Victoria says.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Oh, you don’t know, do you? I’m learning French.’

  ‘No, when did that happen?’

  ‘A few months back. We were talking about how staid our lives have got and came up with this crazy idea, once Bertie leaves home . . . Martin thought he might take a year out or something. We thought we might go and live in France for a bit. Well, if we’re still allowed to, with all this Brexit nonsense.’

  ‘Oh, that would be amazing, Vicky. Where would you go?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Down south, maybe. Somewhere sunny, anyway. But it’s something to look forward to, isn’t it? We all need something to look forward to. Then maybe you could come and visit us for a change?’

  ‘The South of France?’ Penny says. ‘God, I’m already there.’

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Fay Weldon for encouraging me when it most counted. Thanks to Allan and Sue for their proofing skills and to Rosemary and Lolo for being the most important people on my planet. Thanks to Karen, Jenny, Tina, Annie, Sylvie and everyone else who gave me feedback on this novel. It wouldn’t have happened without you. Thanks to Amazon for turning the writing of novels back into something one can actually earn a living from.r />
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2017 Rosey Aston-Snow

  Nick Alexander was born in 1964 in the UK. He has travelled widely and has lived and worked in the UK, the USA and France, where he resides today. His 2015 novel The Other Son was named by Amazon as one of the best fiction titles of the year; The Photographer’s Wife, published in 2014, was a number-one hit in both the UK and France; while The Half-Life of Hannah is the fourth-bestselling independently published Kindle title of all time. Nick’s novels have been translated into French, German, Italian, Spanish, Norwegian, Turkish and Croatian. Nick lives in the South of France with his partner, three friendly cats (plus one mean one) and a few trout.